In the Light of Day
by psychobabblers
Summary: Bruce Wayne reflects on the aftermath of Steppenwolf and gets into a spot of trouble, as Alfred would say. Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
1. Chapter 1

In the days following Steppenwolf's defeat, Bruce Wayne had to take a step back and evaluate everything that had transpired. Things had progressed in a less than satisfactory manner, and though they had managed to scrape a victory, it had almost been sheer luck. Part of it was his leadership, or lack thereof. Now that Clark was back though – and he still couldn't believe it, some days – and Diana was willing to step into the light, it was time for Batman to fade back into the shadows where he belonged.

Everything he had done had made things worse. For once he was content to sit back and take direction from others, others he respected and admired. It was a strange thing, he had to admit. And Superman was a hero legends were made of. And legends were what carried through the ages, that called on people to be better. Batman was a nightmare made into life. A necessary nightmare at the time, perhaps, but no longer as needed. So he watched and waited. (And no, he did not brood, as Alfred had suggested), and went only when called.

Which was few and far between.

Superman and Wonder Woman could handle most issues between the two of them, and an old human with no powers was hardly next on their list for backup. Sometimes he wondered why they bothered calling on him at all. (And again, no, it was not Alfred's suggestion that it was to "hang out.")

He busied himself with the construction of a headquarters for the new Justice League. Not the crumbling Wayne Manor, obviously, but something better, less grand, but no less imposing, he told Diana as he walked her through the history of the house. It would be a beacon of hope, where people who were special, who were different, could come together and try to help people and change the world. And maybe help each other. He sketched out the layout of the planned construction work as they walked, her quick eyes picking out what had inspired each idea.

He dealt with the fallout of Steppenwolf essentially leveling a refugee village. The world powers seemed okay with the powered heroes destroying whole towns when the destruction wasn't within their own borders, and anyway, from their perspective civilian casualties had been minimal. They sent some food and water and medical supplies and moved on.

Batman wasn't good at moving on.

But Bruce Wayne was more suited for this task. He founded a nonprofit dedicated to cleaning up the messes of superheroes. It wasn't the stated goal of the organization, and Bruce Wayne was always carefully, studiously, pointedly neutral on the subject and let the media knowingly assume his opinion on the matter, but the nonprofit tried to lend aid anywhere for things caused by natural disasters. Which now included destruction as a side effect of superheroes. Bruce had ensured it. The insurance companies had added the designation.

He didn't run it personally of course. That wouldn't be in the image of Bruce Wayne. And he had spent his life building images and ideas and reputations and he wasn't about to destroy all that work now.

He just watched and waited and helped where he could.

And where he could help the most, (as Batman, because for once he thought Bruce Wayne was making the real difference), was in Gotham, his first and only love. But not in the ill thought out ways of his past. Kicking a few thugs and turning over a few crates of smuggled drugs to the police wasn't going to break the cycle in Gotham. Neither would arresting all the crime bosses. More would spring up out of the woodwork, and worse, in previously unknown patterns.

In fact, Bruce had seen this happen in Metropolis, when Clark had one day apparently also gotten tired of beating up thugs and simply gathered up all known organized crime members in the city and deposited them in the police station, along with some incriminating photographs and mountains of evidence from their hiding holes.

But even in Metropolis, the vacuums were quickly filled by people who were, if not wilier, then certainly warier than their predecessors.

But even this was fine. Batman watched, and listened, and pieced things together. The investigation that the Metropolis police department was running was suddenly, surprisingly, unusually insightful. This oversight was not a failing of Superman though, it was a quality of Clark's. He had such faith, such hope. It wasn't his fault humanity was determined to disappoint him over and over again. In any case, Batman didn't need to be on the front lines. He could piece together, bit by bit, what lay in the shadows.

Bruce didn't mind getting his hands dirty, not if it kept Superman's clean. He'd been mired in the filth all his life, unable to see the way out, until Clark had shown him the clear blue sky.

So Bruce waited, waited for the world to get better. Because it was the opposite of all he's ever done, and maybe that might prove more effective in the end. Batman was nothing if not pragmatic.

But it didn't. Superman and Wonder Woman were there, helping, and Flash, and Aquaman, and Cyborg. And yet there was something off, something off-kilter. The criminal underworld was uneasy for the wrong reasons, there were whispers in the shadows that even Batman couldn't hear. And the sudden lightness of hope in the world was only more clearly defined by the despair that still lingered.

 _What's wrong with them_ , Bruce would sometimes think while perched on top some vantage point in Gotham. _I gave them Superman. I gave them back Clark._

And yet somehow that wasn't enough.

* * *

Which was why he was in Indonesia when the earthquake hit, as one of his personas. Bruce Wayne would never be on the ground, in the mud, taking someone's hand to pull them up. But others would. Here, he was just another face among many, trying their best to help as many as they could.

It was exhausting, and very often, dangerous, work. Rewarding though, to be able to help people in tangible ways, and to not have to punch anyone in order to do it. And later, Bruce Wayne would make another appeal to donate, and the nonprofit would be here for months after to continue to lend aid and rebuild. These people's lives would not be utterly destroyed.

And there was another role that he could play here. The people here had already wondered when the superheroes would show up, but although this was still the critical first response period, neither Superman nor Wonder Woman were present. Batman kept an ear out, even as he worked to free people, to save them, to administer first aid. It was always good to know what people thought.

No one foresaw the powerful aftershocks that would bring the building Bruce was in down, least of all Bruce himself. One moment, the heavy stillness, the next, an earthshattering roar as the concrete and steel ripped apart and collapsed in on itself. The building went down in a crumble of dust, leaving shocked rescue workers outside, and many trapped inside.

When Bruce came to, it was dark enough that he almost didn't realize it. But as his head slowly cleared, so too did his awareness of his surroundings. He coughed weakly, trying to clear the dust from his lungs, and then immediately wished he hadn't, as it sent shocks of pain rippling down his body. He tried to catalog his injuries quickly, so that he'd be able to best determine how to get the rest of the group he'd been with out, as well as anybody else who'd been in the building.

It was much worse than he'd hoped for. Definitely some broken ribs, but only one broken arm (although the other one was moving a little funny), and his leg leg was shattered in at least 3 separate points. There was a jagged piece of concrete sticking out of his stomach.

Realistically he wasn't going anywhere. He was also probably going into shock, as the pain seemed dim somehow. He tried to focus. There was something important that he needed to do.

Right.

Civilians.

He tried to speak but managed only a whisper. He licked his lips, tasting the blood, the dust, and tried again, voice stronger this time. "Anyone there?"

Silence.

There was a possibility he was the only one who survived the building collapse. That struck him as amusing somehow, and he smiled a little because he didn't think he'd be able to remain conscious if he laughed.

 _Why him?_

Hysteria.

Bruce tried to focus his mind again. He had his implanted biometrics tracker, which was hooked up to the Batcave. If there was signal down here, under a few tons of concrete, Alfred would soon see the readings, and hopefully contact someone.

"Hello?" he tried again.

There was a pained cough somewhere far to his left, so quiet he almost missed it.

"Hey!" he shouted – or whatever he could muster in place of a shout.

"Help..." someone said weakly.

"I'm here," Bruce said, as loudly as he could.

There was a sob. "I can't move. I can't see."

"It's just dark," Bruce said soothingly. The only thing to fear in the dark was Batman. And Batman was his personal demon. "What's your name?"

"Annie," Bruce heard her say.

"I'm Ben," he said. _Lies on lies_. He shook his head a little. Stories and ideas and reputations. Swirls of shadow intertwined, glowing green in the fissures.

 _Clark_.

"I'm scared," Annie said. "I don't want to die."

"Me neither," Bruce said. His vision was going gray, whether because he was slipping into unconsciousness or because more dust was falling on him, he couldn't tell.

 _Kal-El_.

"Help her," he whispered. It hurt to breathe, but he forced himself to do it.

In. Out.

In. Out.

 _I can't do it alone._ "Clark, help."

He was unconscious by the time Superman arrived in a whirlwind, cape snapping and eyes wide. The sky was an impossible blue, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

 _The world needs you._

 _But it doesn't need you._


	2. Chapter 2

Clark flew as fast as he dared, his cape wrapped around the broken body where Bruce's spirit still, miraculously remained. The thready heartbeat, the slow pained gasps of breath were louder than the roar of the wind in his ears, the rush of the world beneath him.

 _The world needs you._

He'd been at work when the whisper had reached his ears. Had scrambled for the door so fast that he'd almost tripped, had left the door slamming shut on his coworkers', on Lois', shocked faces. She would understand.

He arrived in small town in Indonesia to similarly shocked faces, that quickly straightened out and pointed, gesturing frantically at a recently collapsed building.

Bruce.

The faint sounds of his heartbeat came from the building, along with a few others. Clark identified them all, quickly, methodically. Frantically.

Bruce was under a pile of concrete, and was in the worst condition. But he'd never forgive Clark if he prioritized him over the others. _Damn_ the man.

Clark flew to the building, shifted it ever so carefully, not wanting to destabilize it further, wanting to scream his frustration. Bruce was dying in a crumbling building, and he was the most powerful being on the planet and he was still here, bound to the laws of physics, bound to shifting rubble a bit at a time, slowly.

He tried to concentrate on Bruce's breathing, hoping it would center him.

 _In. Out._

Another part of the structure was cleared. The rescue workers were watching him work, but they were well trained, and just as he deemed it to be as safe as a recently collapsed building area could be, they were approaching, ready to give aid as he lifted pieces of rubble.

 _In. Out._

They pulled out a child first, who coughed and coughed but his heartbeat was steady. He'd been lucky, only have a few scrapes.

Miraculously, they found his mother soon after, who suffered some broken bones, but nothing life threatening.

 _In. Out._

They pulled out a man. Another child. A rescue worker with a concussion.

 _In. Out._

Superman listened for the heartbeats, scanned the rubble with his x-ray vision. Faltered when his eyes swept over Bruce, at the blood pooling underneath him.

 _In. Out._

He could go no faster than this. He could lift more, he could hear them, and save them, but only one at a time. Slowly.

Once, the breaths he'd been counting paused, and Clark had felt his heart drop out of his chest, felt like he couldn't breathe until he heard the next one, the next gasp that told him that Bruce was still fighting, alone in the rubble.

 _But it doesn't need you_ , his words echoed viciously in his head.

No.

 _In. Out_.

He let out a sharp sigh of relief, ignoring the looks the rescue workers gave him. Still, they worked steadily, professionally, providing immediate first aid to those they saved.

 _In. Out_.

And then the last one was out, a rescue worker, and she gestured weakly back at the building at him when she was carried away on a stretcher.

Just Bruce left. Clark been evaluating the structure, and by now enough pieces were removed that he could risk shifting the remaining pieces on top of him aside in one swift motion, and wrapping the terrifyingly still figure below in his cape as fast as he dared while still being mindful of his injuries.

He just had to get Bruce to the Fortress. It would be able to save him, he knew. It had to.

The snow puffed up in a burst when he landed, clumsy, and the doors swung open for him without him speaking. He barely felt the bitter chill though Bruce surely would have, if he'd been conscious and not dying in his arms.

He'd constructed the Fortress around the remains of the Kryptonian ship, which he'd removed from the possession of the American government as soon as he could. It formed the heart of the structure, and he quickly brought Bruce there. Medical robots appeared as he laid him gently on an examination table. He looked pale as death, a sheen of sweat over his forehead and blood trickling down his chin. More blood oozed from where a jagged piece of concrete pieced his side. Clark didn't look at the shattered bones again, didn't want to see them again.

The Batman was on the verge of death. The man who'd tried to orchestrate his death, and had ultimately succeeded. The man who'd protected his mother, and Lois.

The man who had brought him back to life.

 _The world needs you._

 _But it doesn't need you._

"Save him," he told the robots harshly, and walked away, not trusting himself to watch as they floated around Bruce, trying to turn his hearing down so he didn't have to hear the soft groans of pain, but not so far down that he could no longer hear the soft heartbeat.

He'd never thought of Bruce's heart as soft before.

Bruce had always been a defining figure to Clark. Invincible, powerful, unbreakable. It was shocking to see him like this, _human_.

It occurred to him then that he didn't really know the man at all. Oh sure, he had googled just like the rest of them - both sides of Bruce Wayne's life was splashed on the media, on the Internet, in magazines. And yes, he was one of the rare few who knew that the Dark Knight of Gotham was actually its Prince as well. But those were just individual pieces of information, Clark was beginning to realize, and far from the whole picture. He'd have to do a bit of digging, a bit of investigating, to find that.

He was a journalist after all. Putting the story together was what he did.

Not at his apartment though. He couldn't give away Bruce's identity accidentally just because he was careless. And he did live with one of the sharpest investigative journalists on the planet. He was afraid he'd already given away too much when he'd first seen the new nonprofit that Wayne Enterprises had founded, to clean up the "messes" that superheroes left behind, the ones that they "didn't have time" to clean up. He remembered the bland impassivity with which Bruce spoke that gave away as much as an outright declaration of opinion.

"He's just another wealthy elite," Lois had said, confused. "You've heard worse. Why do you care?" And after that he had not mentioned Bruce Wayne and his cold eyes again.

For nothing better to do while he waited for the medic bots to finish their work, and to stem the rising tide of helplessness within him, he went to the computer to do some research. Maybe he'd be able to glean some new insight to the man, and surprise him when he was better. He knew now that he hadn't given Bruce enough credit. Hadn't tried to understand him at all. Clark was nothing if not compassionate. He opened the first link and began to read.

Slowly.

Only about 10 minutes later, he heard a cry of pain from the medical center. The next second, he was in the room, taking in the scene of Bruce flailing on the table, face twisted in pain, medical droids hovering around him worriedly.

The heartbeat was erratic, fast with pain or fear or both.

And the scars, oh the scars. It was a map of a lifetime of suffering writ on skin, in defense of a city that had hated him as much as Superman had been beloved. How had he ever thought Bruce inhuman?

"Bruce!" Clark shouted. And Bruce, miraculously, went still.

"Clark?" He said, and Clark felt something twist in him at the way Bruce had tensed at his voice, eyes shuttering even though he was obviously in a lot of pain.

"We must sedate you in order to operate," the droid said, oblivious to the tension.

Clark stepped forward, placing an arm on Bruce's shoulder, feeling how he tried not to flinch at the touch. Bruce's eyes weren't completely lucid but Clark had fought him before and he could see the flicker of unease flitting almost into fear.

"Bruce, we need to operate immediately," he said, putting as much gentleness into his voice as he could.

"Don't - don't put me under," Bruce mumbled.

"It's going to hurt," Clark said.

"Don't," Bruce said, wildly.

"Okay," Clark said quietly.

He wanted to stroke the sweaty forehead, brush the hair that was uncharacteristically disheveled out of the way, wanted to comfort, to help.

Bruce relaxed slowly as the medical droids made their final preparations. Clark realized he was rubbing circles with his thumb into Bruce's shoulder.

He looked at the jagged piece of concrete still embedded in Bruce's side and felt a wave of nausea at the idea of Bruce being operated on without painkillers, at watching him suffer more.

"Bruce, look at me," and brown eyes drifted over to meet his.

Clark moved his hand where it was still rubbing soothing circles into Bruce's shoulder to his hand, felt the calloused toughness of the skin there. It was clammy and cold. "Bruce, please. Trust me," Clark said, pleading with his eyes.

 _I know I haven't earned it_.

Bruce closed his eyes, defeated. "Okay," he whispered, exhaustion evident in his frame.

Clark didn't let go of his hand while the robots slid the needle into him and his breathing eased. He would have stayed - he doubted Bruce would remember anyway - but he was quickly shooed out of the medical center.

He stood for a second staring at the closed door, feeling that familiar rush of helplessness. And then a feeling of guilt.

Alfred.

The little communication device Bruce had given each of them was flashing red when Clark looked at it. He'd been so focused on Bruce that he hadn't even noticed the incessant buzzing. A quick glance at his phone told him he had a missed call and 3 texts from Lois, and a missed call from Alfred.

He dialed Alfred back.

The man picked up before the second ring. "Is Master Bruce alright?" came the stiff voice without preamble.

Clark reassured him that he had gotten Bruce to a medical center, top of the line, more advanced than any human hospital. He could tell that he hadn't completely put Alfred's mind at rest by the time the other man thanked him and bid him good bye, but he didn't know what else he could have said.

He thought about dialing Lois next, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to press the call button. He wasn't in the mood to talk about the situation again. In the end he just replied to her via text, telling her not to wait for him for dinner, and that everything was okay.

It was the first time he'd lied to her since she'd discovered his secret identity.

He went back to reading, trying not to think about Bruce's scars

* * *

 **A/N:** Apologies for twisting canon a little and making Lois not know Bruce's identity. I really liked that bit and when I realized during editing I decided to leave it in. And if you didn't notice, then carry on!


	3. Chapter 3

When Bruce first awoke, he didn't know where he was, which hadn't been all that unusual for him back in his younger days, but was now a thoroughly unwelcome surprise. He kept his eyes closed and breathing steady, trying to catalogue his physical state.

Soft leather bands bound his wrists to a table, and a reasonable attempt had been made to keep his skin from chafing. He ached all over and had a splitting headache but couldn't shake the feeling that he ought to be feeling worse. What had happened?

Then, hand on his and he tensed. Bruce was discomfited at the idea that someone might have been there watching him this entire time without him realizing it. He hadn't thought himself so disoriented.

"Bruce," a voice said softly. He knew that voice. _Clark._

He opened his eyes, squinting a little at the light. Clark's face swam into focus. He felt his body's instinctive flinch and tried to stifle it. The look on Clark's face told him he wasn't all that successful.

"Clark," he said. His voice sounded hoarse from disuse even to himself.

Suddenly he felt a rush of shame. All his meetings with Superman before had been as Batman with the cowl covering his face and his armor meant to intimidate. Although Clark could had x ray vision, he was still culturally and fundamentally human, and legends and mental tricks influenced him as well.

What must Clark see now?

Just a man, broken down by things that Superman could have shrugged off without sparing a thought.

Bruce never failed to be grimly amused at his current predicament. Decades of training, being beaten down and getting back up again, being patched together by a stoic Alfred, the grand strategy, the long nights that never seemed to end or get better, of trying and failing to make a difference, and Clark had accomplished all of that simply by existing.

He was fine with this, mostly. He could acknowledge that he was a little too old to be jumping off rooftops.

"Bruce," Clark was saying. "I'm glad you're awake. I was so worried that I hadn't been fast or careful enough."

Bruce frowned a little, before the memories came back in a rush. "What—"

"They're fine," Clark said. "I got everyone out. Before you."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly.

For some reason, Clark stayed at his side until he fell asleep again.

The next time he awoke the room was empty. He sat up slowly, ignoring the terrible ache in his body to look around what must be a room in the alien ship. A medical bot zoomed over and beeped disapprovingly at him. "Please lie down sir," it said. He shook his head and it compromised by raising the upper had of the bed so he could lean against it.

"Thanks," he said awkwardly.

He wondered why there was this feeling, this expectation that Clark would have been here when he woke. As if his thought had summoned him, there was a skidding sound outside the door and then a hesitant knock.

"Come in," he called.

The door slid smoothly open and Clark stuck his head through. Bruce tried not to think about the leaping feeling inside him when that otherworldly handsome face lit up when his eyes fell on him, the way Bruce's own body reacted treacherously. He felt his mouth quirked up in a weary smile instinctively at Clark's smile, brighter than the sun.

"How long was I out?" Bruce asked.

"It's been a day or so," Clark said. "Alfred knows you're safe, and nothing happened in Gotham while you were recovering. Nothing major."

"That's good," Bruce managed. He was feeling a little dizzy.

The medical bot hovered anxiously around him, scolding Clark now in what was probably Kryptonian. Bruce hadn't know Clark understood it. Clark gave no reaction to the bot's indignant but quiet chattering though, and simply looked at Bruce as if he wasn't sure if he was real.

"Are you… alright?" Bruce finally asked, because Clark seemed content to just sit there forever.

"What? Oh!" Clark laughed ruefully, shaking his head a little. "Sorry. Time has been flowing a little more flexibly for me since I've come back. Sometimes when I'm relaxed I get carried away enjoying the moment."

Relaxed. Around him. Bruce tasted something sour in the back of his throat. How did Clark forgive so easily? Perhaps he had never really registered as a threat in the first place, which was alarmingly fine by him.

There was no danger from Clark.

He leaned back a little, then frowned. Hadn't there been a— ? He lifted up his shirt and saw the pinkish scar, just healed somehow, and swallowed hard. If Clark hadn't come so fast he'd be dead right now

"How did you know?" Bruce asked, examining the scar. An injury like that should have taken him weeks to recover, and at least a few months to get back in the suit. It was true he'd survived worse, but it never got easier.

"I always have an ear out," Clark admitted, looking a bit sheepish. "For some people. Important people. Just in case."

Bruce felt a prickle of annoyance, despite himself. If this had been a few years ago or hell, maybe even a few days ago, he might have snapped that he didn't need babysitting, but now the protests that leapt into his mind sounded foolish even to him. He settled back, disgruntled.

Clark must have guessed at what Bruce was thinking, because he said hurriedly, "I do this for the others on the team too. Not just you."

Bruce smiled, because it was what Clark seemed to be looking for. "What'd your robot give me anyway?" he asked, changing the subject instead of pursuing it further. "I feel a lot better than I should, considering the last thing I remember is seeing lots and lots of blood and being trapped under a few hundred tons of rubble. Plus, I'm pretty sure my arm was broken, and my leg was possibly shattered." He moved both limbs experimentally, and then lifted an eyebrow when he figured he was at about 80% to full motor capacity. "It's only been a day you said? Clark?"

Clark seemed to shake himself a little. "Sorry, it's just that. There was so much blood. I wasn't sure you were going to make it."

"Could've just left me there, you know," Bruce said lightly. "Then you wouldn't have to deal with me anymore."

He'd been aiming for an eye roll at the least but Clark looked stricken. "I don't—" He looked down.

Bruce touched his arm without thinking and Clark froze. "I know, Clark," he said gently. "I know we haven't exactly been the best of friends." Clark snorted with amusement despite himself. "But we make a good team, in my opinion. Even if you have a tendency to deviate from the plan." Clark rolled his eyes.

"You make too many plans," he said.

"How are you still able to lecture me even after almost dying less than 24 hours ago?" Clark shot back. "Though, speaking of plans, have you thought about what you're going to do now?"

"So eager to get rid of me," Bruce grumbled.

"No, I think you should stay here for a few days," Clark said seriously. "This is the first time the medical bots have operated on a human before. You should stay here so they can monitor you in case there are complications. It's not like you can check into a hospital and explain how you managed to heal from those injuries so quickly."

"Only if you let me tinker with the tech," Bruce said, only half-jokingly.

"That's not a problem," Clark said, grinning. "Just don't break anything please! Parts are hard to come by around here."


	4. Chapter 4

It was strange having someone in the Fortress with him. It was strange having _Bruce_ with him. It was a spacious structure, so they didn't strictly have to interact with each other if they didn't want to, but he had agreed to let Bruce take a look at the computers and Kryptonian technology, and so they ran into each other often. And every time he saw him alive and whole and healing, Clark felt a lurch inside him.

Something had shifted in Clark, something he didn't quite realize until he saw Bruce stagger a little, wincing, when his foot didn't land quite right. Clark saw the resigned frustration in his hunched shoulders.

"What is it, are you okay?" he asked, next to Bruce in a flash to steady him.

Bruce looked at him, surprise etched into his features for a second before it smoothed out again into something pleasant. Clark tried not to clench his fists at the change.

"It's called 'being mortal' Clark," he said, with a small smile, a genuine one.

And later Clark would look back at this moment and wonder why he hadn't thought of Lois when Bruce casually mentioned mortality, though that knowledge of her had haunted him in the beginning, had in all honesty barely noticed the reminder at all, at the sight of the rare smile that transformed Bruce's face.

"Your medical facilities are good, better than any human hospital," Bruce was saying. Clark caught the musing tone and knew what it meant, where just a few days ago he would've been irritated at the presumed admonishment that he hadn't used it to help the world. Now he knew what Bruce was thinking of. Bruce's injuries had been terrible, yes when he'd carried him in, but his body was a mask of scars, a patchwork of torn flesh roughly healed together. And his spine... Clark shuddered when he remembered seeing the aftermath of his fractured spine.

How had he gone on? Clark was invulnerable but Bruce was not, and even Superman felt weariness and exhaustion. He remembered the horrible pain when Luthor's monster had torn into him. Bruce's injury was relatively old, as far as he could tell, but it could have crippled him for life.

And he'd not only gone on to continue his work as the Batman, but had fought Superman. Had found a group of misfits with special powers to save the world after he had died. Had resurrected him knowing that Clark might have killed him when he returned, even if out of instinctive rage. He thought of the brutal satisfaction he'd felt when he'd wrapped his hands around Batman's throat and felt a curl of nausea wind around his stomach.

And still Bruce looked at him like he was hope itself, not hero worship but something deeper, more empathetic. Once he might have felt proud at his regard but now he just felt humbled at the trust.

It felt right having him here, in this place not meant for mortals. It was right eating dinner with him, discussing business, discussing the things Bruce had learned about the Kryptonian tech that day. Clark was no expert in the workings of the scalvaged tech either, and it was definitely helpful to have Bruce to over the details with him.

In the evenings they listened to Kryptonian recordings together, music, entertainment, speeches, anything. And every day, Bruce seemed more like his old self, except that he was not shut away from Clark. Not anymore.

So he shouldn't have been surprised late one evening when Bruce was nearing full recovery and Clark was always aware of the curtain call of this strange time spent together that it would end up with the two of them on the couch, reading, comfortable in the silence. So close, almost touching. And Clark is suddenly keenly conscious of the hair's breadth of space that keeps them from it, the delicious frisson of want that shivered up his spine. He'd never quite allowed himself to think of Bruce as handsome before, never allowed himself to notice that he always smelled good.

"Clark," Bruce said, eyes solemn. Clark can hear the unsaid recrimination in his tone.

It was like a bucket of ice crashing over him. Clark bowed his head, warring feelings of desire and shame coursing through him. "I'll - I'll figure it out," he said. Bruce just looked at him steadily. "I don't — I've never met anyone like you."

Bruce snorted, disbelief written plainly in the sound. "You have a whole team of supers now, Clark."

"Yes, they're great," Clark said, waving his hand. "But they're not you. None of them could have done what you did. I wouldn't even have thought to try. We are each of us crippled in some way."

Bruce laughed a little at that, and Clark knew he was thinking of his injuries and the creeping of time. He wondered at how he'd ever found this man inscrutable. How did someone so brilliant fail to see how he was the keystone in all this? He might be mortal with no powers, but having powers didn't give someone strength of character or iron will. It didn't give someone the ability to stand alone against the abyss and look straight inside without flinching. Clark knew that Bruce saw most of Batman's career as ultimately a waste of time, but Batman was just one facet of Bruce. He also knew he couldn't convince Bruce of this right now.

"Bruce, look at me please," Clark said, trying to throw the weight of sincerity into his words. Bruce met his eyes evenly. "Diana said she thought my death brought a change in you. Thought it made you realize that Superman embodied hope to the world. Why can't my life do the same for you?"

He was doing this wrong, he thought in despair as Bruce's eyes shuttered, he was somehow pushing him away.

"Damn it Bruce," he snapped, driven by panic that this might be the end of it, of this fragile peace that had grown into an easy comfort as Bruce recovered in the Fortress. "She said my death inspired you! Why can't you look at me then, now that I'm alive? You're the Batman! What are you so afraid of?"

And it seemed he had finally hit a nerve because Bruce snarled back. "That I—" he cut himself off suddenly and exhaled, all the frantic rage dropping out of him in that breath. His usual quiet stillness returned. "You said to me when you came back, 'well, I know you didn't bring me back because you liked me' and I said 'I don't not.' "

Clark nodded. His throat suddenly felt tight.

"And afterwards, I pushed you all away, especially you," Bruce's voice was so low now that Clark would have had to ask him to speak up if he didn't have superhearing. Maybe that was the point. He had a sudden thought that maybe this was the first time, maybe in years, in _decades_ , that Bruce had truly opened up to someone. "Because I studied the recordings I'd taken of the fight, as subsequent battles I took part in. And I realized that I am a liability."

It was Clark's turn to exhale, as if he'd been punched. He opened his mouth to deny it, but Bruce somehow steamrolled over him still with that soft intense tone.

"I know what you're going to say. That the team 'respects' me. That I've spent my life fighting crime and trying to fix the world even a little. But still. I lost someone once," Bruce said, "someone I loved dearly. I've never been… whole again, after that."

Clark had a flash of intuition, remembering the beaten down bright costume in Bruce's headquarters with a dawning horror.

"And I think to myself every single day. In the end, was my life's work worth it? And I have to answer honestly - it was not. And now you all are. Doing what I failed to do," Bruce said it without heat, without recrimination. "And I feel the nightmare lifting for the first time since then."

"There's very few things that can hurt us, Bruce," Clark said, understanding.

"He thought he was invincible too," Bruce said softly.

Clark gripped his shoulder. "But I _am_ invincible." He turned Superman's 'hero' smile up full wattage, hamming it up a little in the hopes of pulling Bruce out from his demons.

It worked, kind of. The corners of his mouth quirked up. But his voice was still solemn. "Anyway, the point is. The point is I don't dislike you at all. I respect you a great deal, and I admire your work both as Superman and Clark Kent. And," he paused a moment, and Clark felt his heart stutter, inexplicably. "I— I'm glad we got to know each other."

 _I know what words you were supposed to say,_ Clark thought. Three little words to shatter his universe. But Bruce left it at that, with the corners of his mouth still smiling and a devastated look he couldn't quite hide in his eyes.

The next day, Clark took flew him back to Gotham. Bruce was silent most of the time, and had obviously consented to be flown only because it would shorten the time to get back to his city. He alights gently and Bruce is out of his arms and on the ground quicker than even Barry could have managed it.

"Hey," Bruce said gruffly. "Thanks."

"I'm glad to help," Clark said. "And… I'm glad you were willing to call me."

"Not much else I could do, being stuck under a damn building, was there?"

Clark grinned. "Maybe I should thank the building then." He almost managed to keep the lightness in his voice, almost didn't stumble over the memory of Bruce bleeding and dying.

"For what?" Bruce said skeptically. "Being forced to rename your 'Fortress of Solitude' for a week?" He didn't actually do the air quotes but Clark heard them anyway.

"No, it was nice. Getting to know you."

Bruce wavered between crossing his arms and warming towards him and eventually settled for crossed arms and a small smile. "Let's see if you're still singing the same tune during our next mission debrief," he said, and Clark's heart hummed contentedly at the amusement in his tone.

"So you will be deigning to join us in our next fight?" Clark shot back, daring to step closer. Bruce didn't step back.

"Let's just agree that I'm penciled in," Bruce said wryly. "I am a busy man after all, what with running a Fortune 50 company on top of damage control for a couple of lunatics."

"What about team building exercises?" Clark asked. "Training? I seem to remember you critiquing my form."

And suddenly the air between them was charged with heat, as Clark saw the visible effort Bruce was exerting not to drag his eyes up and down his body, the obvious unsaid reply just sitting there. They both heard it anyway. He watched him swallow, hard. Clark stepped closer again and still Bruce did not move away. They were close now, almost as close as last night on the couch. Clark could focus his vision in, count the number of molecules between their bodies, measure down to the atom how much further he would have to move before they were touching.

"Bruce," he whispers. His voice seems to snap Bruce out of his daze.

"The world doesn't need an emotionally compromised Superman," he said, sharply. Clark can almost feel the spark of his sudden anger. He hadn't expected him to be so direct.

 _And what about me?_ Clark's heart whispered treacherously, selfishly. _What about you? What about what_ we _need?_

But selfishness was a language Bruce did not understand, and those words would have no place in Bruce's world. And because of that, they didn't have a place in Clark's world either, in the end. A world that suddenly seemed bleak and cold.

He stepped back and lifted up without a word, turned his face to the sun but froze when Bruce spoke again.

"One year," Bruce said, sounding like he regretted even those two words, sounding like he didn't care about those regrets.

"What?"

"We can revisit this in a year," he hesitated. "If you want."

"Yes."

He didn't have to turn around to know that Bruce had already melted away into the shadows.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** So close to the finish line! Thanks for the comments!


	5. Epilogue

The hardest thing was Lois, of course. But Clark owed it to her to end things cleanly.

"Is it Wonder Woman?" Lois asked, deceptively casual as she watched Clark pack up his things. Such few items from the time spent with the woman he had loved. Still loved, in a way.

"There isn't a woman on the planet or universe that could hold a candle to you," he said honestly.

The piercing look she gave him then made him think she'd seen a little too much of the truth than he'd wanted. But then she nodded, slowly.

 _I'm sorry_ , he thought, but he knew she didn't want to hear it. They didn't speak again that day. He bought his stuff to his new apartment, sat down on the bed and wondered what the hell he was doing with his life.

Bruce had gotten under his skin and into his mind and there was nothing he could do now but wait the period of time he had set, because Bruce was particular in all things and even more stubborn than Clark. He thought of the time they'd spent together, so close, almost touching, and felt his entire being yearn for them to be that close again. He didn't want them to go back to cold, polite greetings and terse comments over a communicator.

He knew Bruce still blamed himself at least partly for Clark's death, still tried to shoulder the burden of the world alone even though he had started the Justice League. He'd been alone for so long that it would take awhile for him to open up again, to trust again, but Clark knew he was up for the task.

If Bruce was stubborn, Clark was endlessly patient. He had learned this from the stars themselves, floating high above the stratosphere and closing his eyes until the music of the universe washed around him. It was just a year. If Bruce wanted to scare him off by being difficult, he was in for a surprise.

* * *

One year later…

Bruce looked up at a small sound and found Superman floating there where he hadn't been a second ago. No, not Superman. Clark. His hair was windswept instead of carefully combed back, eyes earnest instead of distant. He looked like the Clark Bruce remembered from his time at the Fortress for the first time in a year, encompassing both of his worlds.

"Don't shut me out again," Clark said without preamble. "Please. I need you in my life."

Bruce looked at the small hopeful smile and caved. There had never been a doubt in his mind what would happen when he invited Clark to visit the Manor, exactly a year after they had parted on the rooftop. Clark had appeared almost instantly at the Cave, already with that small hopeful smile that was still currently on his face.

He stalked up to Clark, seeing him shiver at the look in his eyes. He'd thought that a year apart would have shaken Clark out of the sudden insanity that had come over him after seeing Bruce so badly injured but it seemed like it was permanent now. He couldn't find it in himself to care. Clark was special — beautiful and good and kind. And so, so painfully human. And he looked at Bruce like he was the same, like he was a hero out of a fairytale, like he never wanted to look at anyone else again.

He didn't know what he'd done to deserve someone like Clark looking at him like that.

"Never again," he promised and pulled Clark in. When their lips met Clark made a soft noise and then they were holding each other tightly, licking into each other's mouths. They both gasped for air a little when they finally broke apart. Clark's eyes were dark with need.

"Please don't tell me we need to wait another year," Clark growled hoarsely.

Bruce laughed a little, and watched Clark's eyes get impossibly darker at the sound. "No," he agreed. That was all Clark needed. In less than three seconds they were naked in Bruce's bed.

"Bruce," Clark groaned, and it was more glorious than he could have ever imagined.

Later, when they were lying intertwined, exhausted and sticky and happy, Bruce tracing idle lines on Clark's broad chest, Clark spoke again.

"Bruce," he started. "I didn't mean for it to turn out this way." And Bruce felt his heart constrict in his chest. "Oh, no, no, no," Clark said urgently, realizing why Bruce had frozen. He kissed the tip of Bruce's ear, then his jaw, then his neck. "I didn't mean it like that. His hand found Bruce's in the dark, unerringly. Bruce wondered suddenly if he could see in the dark. "I meant I wanted to do this right. I wanted to take you out to dinner, go on dates, I didn't want to imply that I wasn't in this for the long haul. Because I am. And if you're not ready that's okay, because I can wait."

Bruce felt his heartbeat even out again. "This isn't the Victorian times, Clark," he said, amused. "I don't think having amazing sex and doing things right are mutually exclusive. And Clark, I was in it for the long haul ever since I laid eyes on you again."

This speech prompted another bout of kissing, which Bruce was not at all opposed to. "Already?" he said, amused at the feeling of Clark stiffening against him.

"It's not my fault you're so beautiful," Clark said. Bruce scowled, revising his earlier theory that Clark could see in the dark.

"Stop thinking so much," Clark said. "You are. Even with your scars. Especially with your scars."

Bruce felt a vague prickle of outrage that Clark was apparently able to read his emotions like reading the newspaper. So much for cultivating a mask for the past few decades.

"Oh come on," Clark said, laughter like sunlight in his voice. "Don't be like that." He reached out a hand to stroke along Bruce's arm and nuzzled into his neck, mouthing along his jaw, and Bruce suddenly found it very difficult to stay cranky.

And over the course of the following months turning years, Bruce also found it difficult to stay dissatisfied with himself, because Clark looked at him like he was worthy of love. Clark had that effect on people, that deep rooted sincerity that made people believe they could be better than they were.

Clark moved some things into the newly renovated Manor and kept his Metropolis apartment, though he mostly slept in Bruce's room when he stayed over. He could consume large amounts of pancakes, to Alfred's delight, during the rare lazy mornings they had together. Bruce visited the Kent farm with him sometimes, to return the favor and attempt to outeat him in homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Clark often covered Bruce's nonprofit in his articles and understood why it was necessary that Bruce Wayne distance himself from the Justice League.

They fought side by side and back to back, and Bruce learned how to trust again, how to love again. Every day, Clark reminded him in so many little ways that the world did need him, that Clark needed him.

And every day, when Bruce looked to the future, it looked ever brighter.


End file.
